Tried to call you on the phone.
Never passed the dial tone.
Confidence: I’m not so full,
when I act out on my own.
Hard enough to say hello
when you’re never really home.
Maybe I’ll drink to my health
if I don’t do something else.
Words that mean what they seem
are discarded. Now they’re a quaint anomaly
rendering everything once simple
into a complicated theory
I can’t believe.
Presidential diaries
claim to expose everything.
Court stenographers agree:
truth is in typography.
He records the whole hearing;
hopes the transcripts disagree.
But it’s just a press release
sent to him by marketing.
Buckled knees, needles seem
to stick out from his arm quite too conveniently,
rendering everything so simple
there is no other possible thing
we could believe.
Pardoning, “excuse me”—
we act so politely when we should just be mean.
Hands are clean, torso lean
and thinking this could go on indefinitely.
Do we deceive?
Don’t fall apart on me.
Don’t you know the times that
I needed you to pull me through,
like when I was in Old England?
I was looking for the info kiosk,
another drink.
I was trying hard not to be distinct
while I was shaking hands in languages
that I can’t understand.
I was really hoping you could lend a hand,
but you weren’t around.
This album fucks as hard as dripping and magic but imo feels the most personal and emotional release of the three. It’s weird and frantic but hits
this really interesting balance.
jude